


Cupid Doesn’t Miss (Anymore)

by somewhereelse



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 19:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: Season 3 AU. Cupid, of Peter Paul Rubens’Venus at a Mirror, has been ignobly trapped in a crate. Upon his liberation, he sets his sights on his unwitting saviors, Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak (or, Dumb and Blind, as he prefers to call them).





	Cupid Doesn’t Miss (Anymore)

**Author's Note:**

> Here have some crack!fic (but not really because magic exists in the Arrowverse so why not some Hogwarts-esque paintings?). Pretend Oliver recovered the family fortune at some point in early Season 3 and Ray didn’t hang around.
> 
> A friend sent me this (creative and well-executed marketing) [ video](https://youtu.be/KUMckyhdcqQ) of a fugitive Cupid projection, and my brain just went _bonkers_. I did like zero research into Greek/Roman mythology, or Rubens, or Titian. Don’t @ me.

Cupid is _bored_.

Actual centuries stuck in this frame, and however long stuck in this pitch-black crate, and he is bored. Mother didn’t even have the decency to be animated along with him. So he’s just confined to this frame, roaming around his canvas and dying of boredom. Figuratively, that is.

At least when he hung in that ostentatious behemoth masquerading as someone’s home, he had company. Unappreciative visitors only concerned with his canvas’ monetary value, that young girl forced to study art history, the occasional lovers seeking privacy during fêtes. There were people _around_ , even if his view was usually of an oddly erotic betrayal and haircut.

Then, one day, a rather large man, with barely any concern for his well-being, roughly removed him from his perch. His home was placed in a large wooden crate, a familiar enough mode of transportation, and the crate nailed shut.

Had Cupid known that said crate would remain shut for all this time, he would have loudly protested the treatment. To no avail, surely, but it was rather the principle of the matter.

The fact remains, he hadn’t known his imprisonment would be indefinite as opposed to temporary, and so he is sealed in this increasingly dusty crate with nothing and no one for company.

(Geographically speaking, Cupid is not far from his former home in the Queen Manor. Still in the city limits, in fact. But for the past few months, his canvas has resided with dozens of other works in a storage unit that remains miraculously in tact and climate-controlled despite the many battles plaguing Starling City.)

Cupid is just contemplating the logistics of a jailbreak, in so many words—he has spent decades at a time shut away in storage or lost to the world but in his advanced age, he is getting, as the foul-mouthed babes say, too old for this shit—when he hears noise.

Not the ambient noise of the limited world around him, but actual, purposeful footsteps and human voices nearing his prison.

“What even is all this?” asks a female voice.

It’s pleasant to the ear, and would be even if it weren’t the first he’s heard in too long. Cupid breathes a sigh of relief because she doesn’t sound like the average mover who might manhandle his canvas. Instead, she speaks with undisguised curiosity, which makes him more curious as to her companion’s answer.

“Stuff from the manor. The bank repossessed it all, but after Slade, no one ever remembered to do anything with it, I guess.”

_That_ voice is somewhat familiar. It takes him a moment, but Cupid places the voice as the older boy—a man now, he assumes, but he has no true way of tracking time, which is relative to him anyway—from his last residence. A precocious, lively child who grew into a reckless annoyance with no appreciation for the treasures of his home. Since the voice was higher-pitched and cracking the last time Cupid saw him, he wonders if the male has matured any, if only because there was very little room for regression.

“This is why I don’t trust banks,” the woman grumbles. Her footsteps come to a sudden halt before she gasps. “Oliver! Holy— Is this the _art_ collection? The bank didn’t remember to sell off your family’s _priceless_ art collection? What kind of _bozos_ —”

Oliver—Cupid can vaguely recall the face now—chuckles deeply. “I don’t know about that. I’m sure there are auction houses who’d love to put a price tag on these paintings.”

“Because they’re _heathens_ ,” she hisses disgustedly. Cupid concurs enthusiastically and finds himself liking her already, sight unseen. “Where’s that emergency crowbar of yours?”

He sends up a silent thank you to the gods. Not only does this woman recognize his value—that is, to say, _priceless_ —but she’s also about to free him from this odious nightmare. They cease conversation as, presumably, the crowbar is deployed. Cupid can hear the creaks and scratches of nails being forcibly removed and the wood slats protesting. It’s almost unbearably loud.

Finally, there is light and air, and Cupid resists the urge to shout, “Free! I’m free at last!”

After a momentary celebratory dance, he takes stock of his liberators. The woman is, as he suspected, young, blonde, and bespectacled. She’s dressed similarly to the style he last observed, suggesting that his imprisonment was not as lengthy as he bemoaned.

Her eyes widen as she frantically searches over his canvas, then she turns to the man and excitedly and repeatedly slaps his arm. Despite his exaggerated grumbling, he absorbs the impact with a slight (and slightly dopey) smile. The man, Oliver presumably, has grown remarkably from Cupid’s memory. No longer does he sport an unflattering haircut nor does he still emanate an air of smug, undeserved entitlement. Most importantly in Cupid’s opinion, Oliver may just be infatuated with the young woman beside him.

_Hmm_ , Cupid strokes his chin, observing the two with increasing curiosity.

“I cannot believe you had a Rubens in your house. I can't believe the bank just let it sit in a storage unit for years. This should be hanging in a museum!”

_Yes!_

Cupid cannot agree enough. His work, his very _existence_ , is dependent on people. Exposure to a wide variety and large number of people is the key to his matching and pairing and cultivating of love. How does anyone expect him to do any of that if he is stuck in a private home, or, worse yet, a crate in storage?

He shudders visibly. This society has no appreciation for him. They really don’t deserve all the good he’s done for them.

“Did that— Did the painting just move?”

She steps closer, kneeling to inspect him. From here, holding stock still now, he can see her bright, curious eyes, her pleasantly arranged features and well-formed figure—maybe not as curvaceous as in his youth but relative to the more recent standards he recalls. Yes, he’s quite eager to make her a match. Not only has he been out of commission for however long, but she’s deserving of an excellent companion for freeing him from his mundane prison and recognizing his inherent value. Add to that, she’s attractive and intelligent. He’ll enjoy the hunt to find her an equal partner.

Although he may not have to look far, if Oliver—

“Don’t be ridiculous. The painting didn't move.”

Oliver scoffs and tosses the crowbar aside, the instrument of death clattering dangerously close to his canvas.

Cupid instinctively jumps out of the way, never mind that the _canvas_ doesn’t move, and glares at the man. So, no, despite the improved appearance, Oliver has not matured past his adolescent uselessness. Well, now he knows where _not_ to start looking for the woman’s future companion.

“Oliver!” Her tone and volume would be unpleasant were she not voicing Cupid’s own displeasure at Oliver’s carelessness. She pushes the crowbar out of the way, ensuring his home’s safety once more. “Be careful!”

“Felicity,” lovely name, Cupid notes, “will you please get up off the floor? It’s dirty and covered in nails now. You can look at it better once we get everything out of here.”

In an almost gentlemanly gesture, Oliver helps Felicity to her feet. Although they release each other’s hands quickly, neither step away, remaining less than a hand’s width apart. Then— _then!_ —they have the audacity to just _gaze_ at each other.

Oh,  _bother_.

If this keeps up, Cupid may have to reconsider finding Felicity a different match.

 

* * *

 

“What is it with you and this painting?”

“It’s a _masterpiece_ ”—Cupid preens—“which you would understand if you weren’t so uncultured.”

“Hey.”

The response is less offended and more obligatory so Cupid gives the man a point for being able to withstand a dig.

Speaking of, the bodyguard steps up to assist Oliver in lifting his frame into place. John Diggle—Dig as the other two call him—is a veritable credit to his sex. Unlike the Queen boy, who is blatantly, in his expert opinion, sulking now that he’s lost Felicity’s attention which is focused on checking their work with a level. Cupid almost sighs in relief because there is nothing so disorientating as constantly being tilted. The woman is a veritable angel, and he ought to know.

Amusingly, Dig places his hands on Felicity’s waist, lifting her so she can reach the top edge of the frame. Oliver continues to sulk at the display, so obviously that one need not be an icon of love to notice. In fact, Dig merely smirks at Oliver’s deep scowl. Good man.

Cupid had been overjoyed at the prospect of finding John Diggle a match, until he laid eyes on the man's chosen partner. Then he sunk into a state of despair, wondering if his services were even needed in today’s world if such a perfect match had been made without his influence. _Then_ he remembered the oblivious tragedy that is Oliver and Felicity and that he is absolutely still needed in the world. 

As Felicity flits about, double-checking this and that, Oliver never quite moves his eyes from her. For _whatever_ reason, Oliver seems to have refrained from vocally expressing his interest in Felicity. Cupid can only assume because all his adolescent partying damaged too many brain cells. On the other hand, if not for Felicity’s figurative—and literal—blindness, words would be unnecessary since Oliver so very poorly conceals his interest.

Cupid would be inclined to give the pair a helping hand, had Oliver not been so careless upon his liberation. That kind of dismissive inattentiveness, and his only reluctant participation in arranging Cupid’s new location, has borne quite the grudge. If Oliver wants Cupid’s assistance, he’ll have to prove himself to be Felicity’s irrefutable match. Otherwise, Cupid is keeping his—and Felicity’s—options open.

Oliver’s hand hovers over Felicity’s back although he dares not make contact.  _Dumb_ , Cupid scoffs. Felicity rattles off details about their next destination, not noticing how Oliver’s eyes linger on her lips because she herself is too busy admiring the breadth of his shoulders. _Blind!_ Cupid wails to himself.

Without any concern for his melodramatics, the trio packs up their tools and takes their leave, leaving him alone in the unfamiliar surroundings.

_Rude_.

 

* * *

 

Time passes without meaning.

The walls around him remain starkly white and uninteresting. Workers trickle through although none pique his interest like the humans who initially freed him. He’s starting to wonder what the point of it all was when, one day, he suddenly has company.

Friends arrive, ones from his previous residence and even earlier in his lifetime, and newcomers, too. Apparently, Felicity has kept her word. He’ll hang in a museum, or at least a gallery space. He waves enthusiastically to the other spirits, and they to him, but none of them have any more of any idea of what this space is.

 

* * *

 

“Hello there.”

Cupid sketches a bow of acknowledgement.

Ah, he remembers these eyes well. The young girl, sister to Oliver, who often haunted the halls of paintings. At first reluctantly, for some school project or another, but then diligently, as if attempting to uncover all their secrets.

Cupid would have liked to find her match, but she’d been a troubled child, destructively rebellious and in dire need of love and attention. He easily recalls her frequent crying jags in the presumptively empty hallways. The wrenching sobs weren’t borne of adolescent histrionics but of deep, debilitating despair. He and the other spirits did their best to distract and entice her with the mysteries their paintings bore but they were rarely successful. Cupid often wondered what had happened to cause such pain in one so young.

She’s recovered now. Those wide eyes are accompanied by sharp angles, even mirrored in her chosen hairstyle, and hard-won maturity for her relative youth. But her dimples peek out, a reminder of her childish mischief, as she smiles at him.

“It’s been a long time. I didn’t believe Ollie when he said we still had all the paintings." Suddenly, she bends and blows a gentle stream along the bottom edge of the frame, stirring the dust there. “Felicity’s right, though. You all need a cleaning.”

 

* * *

 

He spends days, he assumes, shrouded by a drop cloth. Cupid had started to count the days based on the dimming of the ceiling lights, but effectively blindfolded as he is, that method is no longer reliable. He instead focuses on the sounds of construction and workers, deducing that each rotation signals a new day.

When the cloth is removed, the room is much improved. Better lighting, benches, placards and signage. The next day, a petite woman arrives and spends tedious hours tending to his frame and canvas. After days of her thorough inspection, she moves on to the next painting and the next.

Cupid feels rejuvenated and refreshed. All this preparation is obviously _for_ something, and he grows antsy waiting for the inevitable opening.

 

* * *

 

Felicity sweeps a large circle through the room as her dress flutters around her knees. Even in a room full of priceless art, Cupid has to admit that she pulls focus in a remarkable way. After surveying the improvements and new art gracing the walls, she slows to a stop in front of him.

“Hello again. I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit lately. We’ve been busy with the company and... other things, and Thea’s had this well in hand."

Yes, she has. Cupid has passed many hours observing the young woman directing workers throughout the space like the queen she is. The word “remarkable” again comes to mind. He’ll have to keep an eye out for someone to match the formidable woman Thea is becoming.

“Everything’s coming along so nicely. We’ll for sure be ready for the grand opening next week. Knock on wood.”

Cupid perks up at the mention of the updated timeline. In a mere week, he’ll be able to get back to work and just in time, too. His first target is seemingly in dire need of _love_  in her life. Lovely as she is, there’s a strain around Felicity’s eyes, and artfully applied cosmetics can reduce the obviousness only so much.

“Stop talking to the walls.”

Cupid sighs irritably. Can the man not function without her? It seems wherever Felicity is, Oliver is not long behind. He’s never seen one without the other and he was rather enjoying his conversation with Felicity before the interruption.

“I’m talking to Cupid,” Felicity corrects primly.

Coming to a stop right behind Felicity—Cupid wouldn’t be surprised if his broad chest is grazing her back—Oliver tilts his head, looking closer at him. “That’s who this is supposed to be?”

With a fond eye roll, Felicity nods, “And Venus, his mother.”

“You know,” Oliver begins leadingly.

His head hovers over her shoulder and turns to encourage her attention while Felicity tips her head back to match his angle. Oliver’s lips tilt in a small grin, and Felicity’s eyes track the intriguingly intimate movement before she reels back with embarrassment. _Dumb and blind_ , Cupid repeats noiselessly.

“If I didn't study Shakespeare at any of my colleges, I definitely didn't study mythology,” he finishes, belatedly respecting her space by inching back and silently berating himself for something. Cupid suspects it’s either for encroaching into Felicity’s space or for failing to _entirely_ encroach into Felicity’s space. Either way, _dumb_.

Felicity sighs with what should be annoyance but actually seems like fond exasperation. “Cupid is the son of Venus and Mars. The greeting card industry would have you believe he’s the god of love, but he originated as the god of physical desire. In myths, he was more of a plot device than anything, starting wars by igniting uncontrollable desire in men.” She scoffs at the derivative and demeaning depiction, and Cupid applauds her. “In the Renaissance, he was given a little more credit and imbued with more complex, allegorical meanings.”

“Uh, sure,” Oliver frowns, obviously having lost interest in the plot. “If Venus is his mom, why’s she uh...”

With a sighed laugh, Felicity pats his bicep comfortingly. “The Baroque style developed to be more—”

“Pornographic?” he suggests with a hint of a filthy leer. Cupid almost smacks him for his indecency. This is a lady he’s speaking to, and as Felicity alluded, he’s more of the “complex, allegorical love” Cupid than the “unfocused, rampant lust” Cupid.

The pat to his arm turns into a hard whack, although from the looks of things, Felicity felt the impact more than Oliver. “I was going to say extravagant and sensual. Get your mind out of the gutter. Only mine is allowed to be there. Accidentally, of course, I mean. Because I’m always saying things in the _worst_ way, like right now.”

Cupid expects Oliver to tease her again for the barrage of words, but his reaction is subtle, almost unnoticeable. The corners of his eyes crinkle, as if he’s repressing a smile, before he says, “I never would have pegged you for an art lover, Miss Technology.”

She shrugs self-consciously. “Growing up in Vegas, with the Bellagio and the Venetian and even Caesar’s, I kind of developed a Europe fixation for awhile. I read everything I could find on the old masters.”

“And... Reubens? Was your favorite?”

“One ‘e,’ Oliver. Not like the sandwich.” She doesn’t even wait for him to ask before replying, “I could hear it in your voice. Titian was one of my favorites actually. It’s widely understood that Rubens was influenced by Titian’s compositions and paintings of Venus when he painted this one.”

“Oh,” is his unremarkable answer. Cupid rolls his eyes, almost declaring the man a lost cause, but Oliver continues, “Do you want me to get those for you?”

He sounds so eager, so hopeful and ready to accommodate that Cupid can’t help but be charmed. Neither can Felicity it seems because her cheeks flush before she tries to wave the burn, and Oliver, away. 

“I’m pretty sure Titian’s work is in the National Gallery in DC and _not_ for sale,” his face falls at the impossibility, “but thank you. This is all amazing. When I said the paintings belonged in a museum, I thought you would just donate them or lend them out, not _rebuild_ a museum.”

The tips of Oliver’s ears turn red, and Cupid perks up a little. _This_ , he can work with even if Felicity— _b_ _lindly_ —fails to read between the lines and grasp the true reason behind Oliver’s philanthropy. If the man (re)built a museum in her name, Oliver may just be redeemed in Cupid’s eyes.

“It’s my fault the museum was destroyed in the first place so it’s the least I could do.”

Felicity’s expression immediately turns thunderous and dark. 

“How many times do I have to tell you that was _not your fault_? You are not responsible for the terrible, murderous decisions of other people, let alone Slade Wilson.” Her expression softens as she reaches for his hand with one of hers and raises the other to rest on his shoulder. “Please stop blaming yourself.”

Oliver’s face lights up with something akin to awe as they, once _again_ and for what Cupid suspects is the umpteenth time, stare into each other’s eyes, uncaring of the workers milling about the room.

“For you?” he asks softly. “Anything.”

Oh, _fine_.

Cupid adopts a petulant stomp as he goes to find his damn bow even though he’s secretly pleased by the revelation. Who knew such a mismatched pair would actually fit together seamlessly? But when he returns to the foreground, instrument in hand, the pair is gone. 

What—

Damn it.

 

* * *

 

Now, this.

_This_  is where Cupid belongs. In the midst of people, on high alert, his eyes eager to take in all the possibilities. Granted, these are all largely the _same_ type of people—well-dressed, moneyed, pretentious, and therefore lacking in discernible qualities for him to catalog. But it bodes well for his future. He anticipates the weekend crowds, the school groups, the unlikely art lovers.

In fact, he’s already scouted a beau for Thea from one of the unexpected attendees.

Cupid can admit to having help with this match, as they are obviously familiar lovers. From the conversation he overheard, they likely parted on poor terms yet are still drawn to one another. The young man is classically handsome and well-dressed but uncomfortable in the outfit and this crowd but still determined to see the night through. A mess of contradictions Cupid thoroughly approves of for young Miss Thea. Roy clings to Felicity like a life preserver, although she doesn’t appear to mind the persistent company. 

“Where are they?” Felicity mutters impatiently into her wine glass.

Neither of the Queens have yet to appear, leaving the mismatched pair to fend for themselves. At least Felicity views his painting as some sort of refuge and hasn’t strayed far. Roy, although confused by her choice of corner to hide in, remains steadfastly by her side and openly hostile towards the disapproving glares they draw.

Cupid shares in their frustration. If the effort of the two goes unappreciated by the siblings, he may locate his voice for the first time in _centuries_ and scream. Thankfully, he’s spared the indignity.

“Excuse me.”

Thea’s confident and commanding voice rings out through the assembled crowd, quieting them almost instantly. For aesthetic reasons, she chose not to construct a stage and is relying on well-placed, well-camouflaged speakers to make her opening remarks. As she thanks the donors and staff for their generosity and hard work, Cupid hurriedly scans the crowd.

He clenches his fist tightly around his bow, nocking an arrow to keep it at the ready. The moment Oliver appears in his sights, Cupid’s going to nail that sucker with the sharpest, fastest arrow in his quiver. Felicity, nearby as she is, can be coerced with less aggression.

“If you’ll indulge me for a few more minutes, I’d like to invite my brother, Oliver, to say a few words. It was his vision that put the rebuilding into motion. I was just lucky enough to help him execute it. Ollie?”

From seemingly nowhere, Oliver appears to take the microphone from Thea. As he reiterates Thea’s gratitude to those involved, Cupid impatiently bounces around his canvas, trying to establish a clear shot through the crowd. He’s experienced enough not to risk a misfire, especially with a couple as volatile and fragile as this. Never before has he seen a man of Oliver’s equal at recrimination and self-doubt or a woman of Felicity’s equal at self-imposed ignorance. Which is what Cupid intends to fix tonight.

After the platitudes, Oliver pauses, his eyes skimming through the audience that’s beginning to murmur in confusion and speculation. Cupid knows he hasn’t sighted Felicity yet tonight. In her deep red, off-the-shoulder gown, and especially with her upswept hair exposing her long neck and shoulders, Felicity looks worthy of her own Baroque masterpiece. Surely, if he had seen her before now, Oliver would have been incapable of his little speech for having swallowed his tongue.

Finally, in an almost visible eureka moment, his eyes hurriedly track back towards Cupid’s canvas. His searing gaze practically parts the crowd, creating a path to Felicity and almost clearing Cupid’s eyeline to Oliver. The man goes a little slack-jawed when he sees Felicity, looking for all the world, and as Cupid predicted, as if he just swallowed his tongue. Cupid snickers and notices the stifled amusement of both Roy and Dig, who’s appeared in the background along with his lovely wife.

The audience leaves the little trail between Oliver and Felicity open and unimpeded. Collectively, and almost simultaneously, their eyes race between the two as Oliver appears to be speaking directly to her. Felicity shifts uncomfortably with the attention, finally settling to a stop directly in front of his canvas.

Regaining his composure, Oliver clears his throat and tries again, “As I was saying, this museum, this project, has been near and dear to my—”

Snapping back to reality, he realizes this is his chance!

With unerring precision, Cupid releases his arrow as Oliver is finding his words. The shaft whizzes through the air, unseen to all but him. In one fluid motion, as the first arrow is still midair, Cupid reaches back for another and quickly lodges it in Felicity’s heart. (He always feels disingenuous literally stabbing someone in the back, but needs must and all.) Almost in perfect concert, the first arrow— _not_ heart-shaped for the love of the gods—also finds home in its intended target, Oliver’s heart.

Both targets jolt as if physically assaulted, Oliver even looking around for an invisible assailant. Thea subtly clears her throat in an attempt to draw his attention back, and Oliver shakes his head to refocus. His eyes find Felicity once more before he tries to finish his thought for the third time.

“Near and dear to my,” Oliver restarts faintly, “To my _Felicity_.”

He finishes strong on her name, even as the shocked rumblings of the high society crowd begin.

“I would have never taken an interest in this cause if it weren’t for Felicity Smoak. So please, as you’re enjoying the night and any other time you find yourself visiting the museum, take a moment to thank Felicity for opening my eyes to the wonders of the artistic world. I—and Starling City—have been made so much better because of her.”

Oliver shoves the microphone into some disembodied hand then stalks through the path he created. Felicity rushes forward to meet him halfway. They barely take the time to confer before their mouths are otherwise occupied.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes, of course. But you deserve—”

“ _Shut_ _up_. I’ll decide what I—”

Then a kiss— _kisses_ —that honestly qualifies for Cupid’s Top Ten Most Romantic Kisses in the History of Ever, or At Least Since 1614.

The crowd is stupefied at the sudden turn of events. But then Thea, wonderful Thea, begins clapping, and hooting, and hollering, all while Oliver and Felicity remain oblivious. Roy finds the wherewithal to cozy up next to her, and they share an amused yet disgusted look at the increasingly inappropriate display.

Almost absentmindedly, Cupid fits another arrow into his bow, draws, and releases. This time, the single arrow passes through both his intended targets, hitting first Roy then Thea. The former, soon-to-be-reunited couple turn to each other curiously, and Cupid pats himself on his back.

Sometimes, the trick—and the trickiest—shots are the most worthwhile.

 


End file.
